


The Eyepatch Prince

by aelit



Series: Dragon Plague [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Addiction, Apocalypse, Childhood Abuse, Death, Demons, Dragons, Elemental Magic, Fantasy, Half-Human, Healer, Illness, Magic, Mob Mentality, Nightmares, Original Fiction, Original Universe, The world isn't a happy place, Trauma, epidemic, half-dragon, prince - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelit/pseuds/aelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world of the living and the thin world have become unbalanced again, the dragons ceasing all contact and transforming into bringers of death. Rengar, an ancient healer, fights to stop the downward spiral, a royal blood apprentice by his side. To the south, a half-dragon orphan tries to survive in the society turning less welcoming with each village burned to the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bad Fairytale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shape was moving straight across the sky. It would pass the village soon, unseen for the ones below. It was a sight only for him.
> 
> "Orenda - a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a series of drafts on a character's backstory and turned into a novel of his own. A result of several Camp NaNoWriMo.  
> I am in the progress of editing. It's only going to get darker.

Once upon a time, there lived a boy in a village. A small village, tiny enough to be a nameless dot on the map of Azhareth empire. Travellers taking the eastern route through the mountains stopped here for water and supplies. For them, it was one more dirt village to pass on the way north, to the Kingdoms, or south to the capital. For those who watched the caravans pass by, it was home. 

It was the boy's home as well. He had never gone further than the nearest town, never seen the mosques of the capital or sharp spires of towers in the Kingdoms. Instead of loving a place far away, he treasured his knowledge of what lay under each rock and roof, here. The mornings were golden with sunshine. Stars were bright at night. Beyond the view of endless caravans were well-loved gardens. The river was full of quick fish. The cluttered houses nested in the narrow valley, kept safe by the mountains themselves. But the truth remained. Three quarters of the year, the road cutting the village in two was dry from the sun. Any grass between the cobbles or plants under windows would be stomped out, or eaten by hungry cattle.  Ochre dust rose into the air after each set of feet passing through. A veil of red filled the air. In the dry, hot summers, scarves were wrapped over mouths. The fabric wept clay when washed. Only at night, hours after movement ceased, the dust settled. Still, people preferred the dust to the mud that came in winter as it rained day after day. Travel through the area became dangerous, and life held its breath.

Travel let people see the wonders of the world. Yet so many came through here scoffing, only stopping out of necessity. It was a place of no importance. Nowhere, under the hot sky.

The boy was a nobody. Skin and bones, dust in unkept hair, skin golden from the sun. He wore the same clothes every day until most was see-through with no space left for patches. There were thousands like him along the road. Not in Azhareth, but everywhere.

Days, he worked. Nights he was free, earning new calluses and bruises as he scaled the rock, drawn by the stars to high ground. It was there he felt most at home.

It was nearing winter. The road stayed dry, but the nights got cold. He took his pitiful lunch to the high perch to say goodbye to it. Sunlight, angled the way it got in the autumn, flooded the valley. Everything was crisp in it. He basked in the way the light warmed him all the way to his bones, sweat dripping from the end of his nose as he clutched at handholds. The memory of this warmth should last him the winter.

A good part of the rocks around the village were still closed to his fingers. But the boy was sure. His fingers grew stronger and latched on easier by the week. Next spring, there would be no unreachable spots. 

A dry oak tree took him above the smooth wall. His fingers found cracks by memory. The child dragged himself up onto the ledge above the oak's finest branches. It did not matter that all he had was a small jar of ayran and some bread. Being above all he knew was a delight. Down underneath, the village lived and breathed, with people crawling from place to place like ants. Only some sounds reached here. The villagers were colourful spots.  He amused himself by guessing which was which.

Today, he was content to watch his little world turn without any concern for what lay beyond. He had his set of fascinations with the outside world, as did anyone his age. Of course, they were vague. Merchants were only eager to talk with the ones who had money to spare. It was why he hunted for dropped coin in the dust. Merchants had their trade for a reason. They could sell. Their tales made everything out there amazing. White streets with silver rivers, food that shone like gemstones, cities in the clouds. That was the world woven in his head, but all he saw of it were their humble goods.

Today was not the day his mind itched to know the world out there. Odd, just when he thought of the future, of how his life here would go, was when he saw it.

A flash of the sun reflected off something in the sky. Then, again. It continued.

The boy almost flew up the cliff behind him to get a better view. Was it? Was it what he thought?

The shape was moving straight across the sky. It would pass the village soon, unseen for the ones below. It was a sight only for him. 

The dragon moved its enormous wings in a wide arch. White and silver, they seemed to burn when the sun reflected off them. As it got closer, the dragon stopped moving and began to glide. From his vantage point, he observed the greys, blacks and silvers on the sides of the elegant body. He whooped, waving his hand in the air. Of course it would not see or notice him, but his joy needed an exit.

Dragons kept to themselves, living in the wild lands. They were said to converse only with the few they found interesting. Keepers of many secrets, dragons fascinated him. This one passed here, shimmering in the sun. It returned to him all the wishes to go out in the big world.

The boy  bounced and shouted, laughing with joy. Up in the village, others looked up to the cliffs, hearing him. He had seen a dragon! One day, he would meet one. They would talk as equals. Perhaps, he could ride one... Dreams filled his mind. He would fail many a task this afternoon.

The dragon flew. She was flying as she was always used to. It took as much effort to her as it would to him walking. Gliding in the hot air, she passed  the village, heading east, her back warm in the afternoon sun. 

East was the only certainty. It was the glint of a rising sun hours earlier that helped her set a direction. Blackness she did not understand covered her eyes and most of her head. It was not, as the boy would think, her pattern, but something less hers. She wept it from her eyes and could not see. The discomfort made her anxious. She wished to reach the others soon and get help. Large wings swung her back up in the air.

The others were north. She was still going east, lost and unaware. When the lights of the day dimmed, she could only go forward.

Once her massive body tired, she descended from the sky in a slow loop, sleepy and weary.

The sea took her sleeping form and cradled it all the way to the bottom.


	2. The Rogue in Sheanen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.” - Madeleine Miller, The Song of Achilles

Drops of water melted by his breath run down the intricate frost patterns on the window and freeze back in place. Rudolph sighs. The pattern has not worked like he wished, so he breathes on the glass again. Inside of the inn room is only a little warmer than the cold air outside. The fireplace is blazing heat downstairs, but Rudolph tired of the public long before the snows fell. Since he is unwilling to mingle or spend any more time bitten by the freezing wind than he already does, he elects to stay in the cold room and keep warm by exercise. 

His muscles have never been more pronounced. By bedtime he works some warm air into any room he stays in. 

Rengar is not in his own room. He prefers taking a walk, and the weather is not a deterrent. Damn the healer. They’re both northerners, yet Rudolph can’t ever hope to match the other’s resistance to cold. 

Before, Rudolph would go downstairs and find company. Now, only if he’s asked does he untie his money pouch and buy everyone drinks, asking questions when they grow kinder from inebriation. For all his virtues, his mentor is bad at conversations with people who are not awed by his fame. 

He gets up and starts on his pushups.

However Rudolph may deny this influencing him, the constant travel and bleak winter days have instilled in him an apathy he is reluctant to fight. There is only that usual hope, that with the coming of the spring his heart will thaw once again. It is soon, even if slow in arriving. Already there have been rains between blizzards, and shining, half melted ice coats the little Sheanen town they need to pass on the way to their next case.

Yes, spring is just around the corner, he decides, and sits on the edge of the bed, deciding to sleep now and get an early start tomorrow. Rengar has been complaining of him sleeping in too much.

The knock that comes on his door as he’s pulling on his sleeping clothes is not polite in the slightest, so he has no difficulty identifying the guest.

“Rudolph. Get dressed, quickly.”

“Rengar? What’s going on? I thought I would sleep.” 

“It’s foul, so foul. Get dressed, and take your sword, too.” His mentor’s voice sounds as though it’s coming to him through a mass of water.

Rudolph sighs and goes backwards through the motions he’s just made. It was Rengar’s extraordinary gift that made him confident about this investigation. And that’s had them chasing back and forth through all the Kingdoms since autumn. He was quite curious to see the famous sense of Rengar's. That is, until the healer began throwing the words foul, ill, and eerie in each affected city as if that was enough of an explanation. His psychic gift failed to solve any of the cases, so by the end of winter Rudolph was fed up.

Layering leather, fur, and thick wool, Rudolph finally reaches for the sword. It is sheathed, leaned against the foot of the bed, a heavy, ancient two-hander. He is only average with it, but it is a valuable heirloom he has to carry. It has already chafed a perpetual scar on his hipbone with the belt. He secures it at his side and exits the room, finding Rengar leaned against the wall with eyes closed.

“Don’t bother.” He says as his apprentice searches his pockets for the room key. “We’re about to get progress. Come.”

The healer goes from standing still to running in a blink of an eye, a blur of grey down the steps of the tavern. Following, barely aligning his feet with the narrow steps, Rudolph growls to himself. He is tired of cryptic warnings.

It’s when he dashes out of the tavern through doors bursting open that he hears it. The alarm bells echo on the eastern side of town, from the direction they would travel tomorrow. It is just before dawn, but the streets are full of people. Even behind him, more emerge from the tavern, confused.

“Is it the wolves?” Someone asks.

“They’ve been gathering in the woods around the border. Game’s been scarce.”

“They’d never make it inside.”

Rudolph looks at the healer’s back. He’s quiet, but, standing right behind him, Rudolph hears a ‘no’ breathed.

“They’d howl, too. So quiet…”A woman adds nearby.

Past them, heading from the towers, a group of guards run down the main street, spreading through the town, shouting at the top of their lungs and gesticulating. Once they get close enough, the evening mist can’t hide the horror in their eyes.

“Dragon! The north tower is burning! Everyone inside! Get in the basements!” The man commanding rasps out.

Chaos erupts, townsfolk running for cover. Rudolph makes no such move, instead following Rengar who sprints east down the street. Polished cobblestones, icy and wet in the freezing mist,  make for a thrilling run. Rudolph slips where he’s running a step in front of the healer, wobbling out of balance. With deadly efficiency, Rengar grabs his arm and jerks him back on his feet, almost dislocating his shoulder in the process. “Thanks.” He breathes, and they keep going, weaving through the panicking crowd.

The belt chafes. As much as Rudolph wants to focus on the present, the chafing distracts him, further dispersing his senses. It has been too long since there’s been any conflict, but, seeing the pained frown on Rengar’s face that means he feels violence, Rudolph knows the times are changing.

In the sky over the east walls, blue is flashing, growing closer. As they pass the town square, jumping over scattered stands, a rumble rushes through the air, distorted by mist. 

“Twins, that’s a growl. He’s pissed.” Rengar barks, out of breath, and veers off to the side, pulling Rudolph along.

A dragon, descending fast down on the small, neat Sheanen town. The watchers know as much, and that is enough to set the alarm frantic. Dragon, dragon, dragon. A sapphire blue dragon taking a nosedive at another tower.

Rudolph has almost lost the sense of where his feet are taking him on the slippery cobblestones. He can only look at the northeast tower, visible over rooftops, at the slash of blue behind it, at the rocks cascading. That bell falls silent. The east tower’s bell turns continuous before growing silent as the shadow lunges to it across the walls. The watchers do not want to die.

They can’t make the distance, and Rengar ducks into a side alley, leaning around a corner and watching as the pearlescent muzzle tears through the other tower. His heart pangs with pain and loss, and he slams a fist into the wall to counter it, facing the ground and panting.

Mentor and apprentice lean against opposite walls, catching their breath. Judging by the rumble above, the dragon is back in the air. The older man stares at the sword hilt at Rudolph’s side, squinting and tearing the glasses off his nose to wipe perspiration off them.

“That dragon is here to kill. He won’t listen to reason.” 

Simple, matter of fact words. Except dragons don’t do such a thing. They keep to themselves, and even if someone angers them, prefer putting the matter in human hands rather than engaging in battle. They understand better than anyone the sanctity of life. Still, Rudolph knows not to question this, accepting this outrageous new thought as the new reality.

The roaring rumble passes overhead. A sound of crying makes Rudolph look down the street, a farmer woman dragging a little girl by the hand, heading away from the wrecked towers. The child cries, too young to understand what is happening, terrified. Rudolph holds his gaze on the long braid flapping against her back.

After that, he meets Rengar’s stare over the hand pressed to his mouth, and doesn’t see another nosedive as it brings down the second story of a house on the other side of the street with a deafening crash. The crying stops, and soon there’s another mighty flap of the wings as the beast takes off toward a horn being sounded to the west.

Rengar looks out, his apprentice not sharing that courage. “He won’t quit until everything is in ruins. Hey, prince. Welcome to your first real battle.”

Rudolph, prince Selantheian, curls his fingers around the hilt of his sword, and presses down, the chafe a white pain to bring him back to his senses.

“Tell me what to do, Rengar.”


End file.
